Cognosco

I’m leaving tomorrow on a 2 and a half week road trip. There’s piles of "stuff" all over the house in various degrees of packed. I am ridiculously giddy.

I’ll try to post frequently from the road.

I described how I feel about driving once over here. 

Woot! woot! 

…I still agonize over when to be pregnant.

I still worry if I will be hired for a job if I am pregnant.

I worry about whether or not I will be able to keep a job or get tenure if I have a baby.

And I am one of the lucky ones. I had my first child while in graduate school, which is actually a great time to have a baby in my opinion. But I’m set to graduate next year with a Ph.D. and get some kind of job in academia. There are few career paths more liberal than academia. Furthermore, my area is psychology, which when combined with academia leads to so much liberalism that you can almost choke on it. I will have my own office so pumping will not be a problem. There is quite a bit of flexibility in the schedule of an academic, so long as you somehow manage to work 50 (+?) hours per week. Doing what you love. Not bad, really. I am incredibly lucky, especially given that I am the first in my family (including cousins ) to even graduate from college with a four-year degree, let alone an advanced degree.

And yet…

…the whole thing has been keeping me up at night. In order to have my kids two years apart, I’ll have to get pregnant in the next few months. Be pregnant on job talks. In academia, job talks can be a two or three day affair, packed with meetings and interviews and presentations and intensity. I wouldn’t want to fly past 34 weeks in a pregnancy. Job talks take place from about November through February for the nicest jobs. For less nice jobs, they can continue through the May. So, we reasoned that if I get pregnant in August, the due date would be in May, which is also the same month I’ll be graduating. Then I’d start a new job the following August. Granted, most programs tend to be a wee bit forgiving in the first year because you are adjusting, but compounding that adjustment with a new baby, sleep deprivation, breastfeeding…what a recipe for disaster. And, I would miss a lot of that child’s first year because I’d be focusing on so many other things.

Sound crazy? I think so too. I’ve been in a constant state of fretting.

So, I decided that I would go for the "easier" jobs. Little or no research. Smaller schools. More teaching. Familiar. Not too challenging.

And then I stopped caring about schoolwork. I couldn’t focus on anything. Writer’s block set in like someone had wrapped gauze around my brain.

Because wait a minute–I love research. I love mentoring. I love teaching too, but to only teach would be like cutting off a limb.

    "For a minute there,

    I lost myself,

    I lost myself."

        –Radiohead

I love my family. But I love my dreams too. 

So, one day, I asked myself why I wanted my kids to be two years apart. Well, my brother and I are 2 years and 3 months apart. I think I never questioned that two years was the best spacing for kids, because it was normal for me.

It would be "inadvisable" to have a baby during the first year or two of a new job. While most universities will stop the tenure clock during that time, you may still be judged negatively for having a child during that time. And really, it would be nice to be settled in first anyway for my own sanity. So, if I have my next child after two years on a job, Albert would be four years old.

I began to contemplate this, and took the same approach to this question that I do most things. I researched it ad nauseum. Turns out that if you ask people what the best spacing is, everyone gives a different answer. There are good things and bad things about any age difference. And it seems that the most important factor in how your kids get along isn’t their age (up to about a 5 year difference), but their personalities. Good luck planning that.

When I let myself accept the possibility that this might be a better choice for our family, a tremendous disappeared from my shoulders. The brain fog lifted. I wanted to do school work again. I felt motivated. My writer’s block disappeared. I felt calm.

The down side is that my future job is not likely to be in the Phoenix area. Even if there was a job here, I don’t want to stay here. Which means that I will not have Connie as my midwife, or Leigh as my doula. And that kind of sucks.

But to be honest, I’ve always had trouble envisioning Connie at my next birth. Maybe it’s because she’s just not meant to be.

And I can accept that Leigh will likely not be there because I can entice her to visit me with the promise of chocolate and the scent of a newborn. And then we can bask in new babyness while we watch the birth video, eat brownies, and laugh.

I think MB can be coerced with chocolate too… 

Nonetheless, I still think it’s bullshit that this whole process has been agonizing. It’s bullshit that I can’t just think about what’s best for our family without worrying about damaging my career. And I am one of the lucky ones.

We have come so far, and yet have so much further to go. 

So, once upon a time, I had this dog named Batchelor, with a ‘t’. I spelled it with a ‘t’ so that his name was ‘Batchy’ for short instead of ‘Bachy’ because ‘Bachy’ would sound like a pet name for a classical composer. I was told he was an Alaskan Malamute - German Shepherd mix. I’m pretty sure that there was Doberman in there too, but the Husky was the predominant personality.

I had him for 8 years, from the time I was 17, until I was almost 25. I was a total idiot when I raised him and trained him, and he could be a monster (only to inanimate objects and fences), but I loved him so much. He had terrible separation anxiety, so I had to get a dog friend for him. Turns out they were both escape artists. The only thing that ever kept him in was electric wire. Don’t judge. I touched it myself before I ever let him get near it.

When I divorced my ex-husband, I let him keep the chow I’d originally gotten to be Batchy’s friend because I wanted his son to have a protector and they were both very close to her. Because of the separation anxiety component, I took Batchy to doggie day care every day while I went to school or work. Because seriously, he couldn’t be alone. He broke through a window once. He chewed up seat belts. Destroyed carpets, furniture, you name it. He even managed to escape not one, but two, kennels at the doggie day care that were designed for pit bulls!

I know now that they have medications for this kind of thing, and would have considered it had I known. Instead, I just lived with it and did what I had to do because I loved him so. The day care people loved him too, in spite of his fence damage. Because he was such a PERSON.

About two months before he died, I took him to the vet because he had a cough. The vet said something to the effect of, ‘Yeah, these old huskies, they have loose jowels’. And I was stunned for a moment. Because it never occurred to me that he was old. I still viewed him as "entering his prime". But I looked at him that day and realized, yes, he was getting old. 

I was currently living with my mother after a few very stressful months, and it was not the optimal living situation. I was working on getting a place of my own, made all the more difficult by the crazy dog factor. I was really depressed at the time. When I wasn’t manic.

When we got home from the vet, I was snuggling with him on the bed, and I told him I knew he was getting old and that it had been a long, crazy, life with me, but would he please promise not to leave me until I was out of my mother’s house and in a better situation? And happy? And would he please try to make sure I was there when he passed? And if there was an afterlife, would he promise to be the one to greet me?

Don’t worry. He didn’t actually reply to these pleas. I wasn’t THAT depressed and delusional. But I think he understood.

Fast forward to January 15th, about a month after the vet visit. I was moving into an apartment owned by someone I had known as a customer from a coffee shop I worked at for several years. He even let me paint the apartment. And it was a cool little complex of only 4 apartments with a nice big grassy courtyard. Every day, I dropped Batchy off at doggie day care on my way to school. On my way home, I picked him up and we’d go to the park for awhile. It was a really nice few weeks. So nice, and so surreal, that I even remarked to a good friend of mine that life was really good and I wanted to really memorize this time with Batchy, and that I would look back on it as a really positive time in my life. The week before he died, I felt compelled to take mental snapshots of our moments together. I really appreciated our time together.

Around this time I met Hyrum. We had our first "date" on Feb 2. It was dinner at my place because I couldn’t leave Batchy home alone. Or in my car alone. Or anywhere alone. But Hyrum was cool about it. We talked for 6 hours that night and made plans for the following weekend. I was going to have my brother come over to babysit Batchelor so we could go out. Seriously, it was like having a baby.

The next day, I spent a lot of time cuddling with Batchelor. We napped on the couch together. Keep in mind, this was an 85 lb dog. I was memorizing the feel of his fur as I stroked him. Some part of me must have known what was to come.

He got sick on the night of the 5th. He had bloat. My options were an operation to rearrange his internal organs or to put him down. The operation was risky. They’d have to keep him for a week. I didn’t want him to die without me there in some recovery room or kennel. And then, he would have "special needs" and I just didn’t know how the hell that would be possible. And I had always secretly hoped that he wouldn’t have a long, drawn out kind of sickness or death, and so in some way, this sudden sickness was a twisted blessing.

He saw me through so many changes and growing pains, and when he died, I was devastated.

On the plus side, had I not been an emotional wreck, I don’t know that I would have been "needy" enough to let Hyrum into my heart. And I’m so glad I did. In a funny way, it was like Batchelor’s gift to me. Either that, or when he met Hyrum he was like "oh, god, not another man for me to tolerate–I’m out of here". I actually like to think that he saw that Hyrum was a good man, and figured he didn’t need to be around to protect me any more. And the timing was hauntingly perfect–the lack of freedom due to having to care for Batchy had probably literally saved my life when I was initially manic after the divorce. If I hadn’t had to look after someone and had to be home most nights…I don’t really want to think about where I would have ended up. But now I was in need of more freedom, and as much as I loved him, he was kind of a burden.

Need I mention that it is spooky how well he kept his deal? I was out of my mother’s house. I was happy. And he didn’t get sick while I was in school. I didn’t show up to pick him up to find him dead or in the hospital. I was right there with him. If there is some sort of afterlife, I am positive he will be there to greet me.

It’s been 5 years today since he died. I have three dogs. There is no dog shortage in this house. But there is also no Batchy.

About six months after he died, I wrote this poem. I don’t even think it’s very good. But I thought I would post it, for no other reason than maybe someone else will read it and totally know that they are not the only ones who have cried spontaneously for years to come over a lost furry friend.

For Batchelor

December 21, 1994-February 6, 2003

The night I lost you,
you were so sick,
and it came out of nowhere,
no warning.

It had been the perfect day
in the park,
you’d gotten in
up to your belly–
you, the dog who hated water.

And when we crossed the bridge–
click, click, click,
your paws on concrete,
every few seconds
looking back at me,
of course
I was always right there.

Always.

When the pain started,
I knew
this was no bellyache to pass,
and somewhere,
in the back of my brain,
I heard the word ‘bloat’
and remembered
it could be fatal.

I had no phone book–
called a friend for a number
to an emergency vet.
I knew
time was running short–
your quiet whine–
no dog so big
should ever cry so small.

And when you went to lay
in the bathtub,
the line was crossed
and off we went.

The x-ray came back,
I was right,
it was bloat,
and you would die
without surgery,
and probably die
even with surgery,
and I asked someone,
something,
you,
what to do…

and I knew
it was time.

All I’d ever hoped
was that I’d be there
when the time came,
and that you wouldn’t die
a slow death
in months of pain.

They gave you drugs to calm
and sooth
and let me sit with you,
while I waited for my mother
to arrive
and give me strength.

And you knew,
you knew,

your huge head in my lap–
your head now bigger
than your entire body
the day I brought you home–
so long ago.
You knew,
and you conceded.

The doctor entered
and explained
there might be
twitching,
convulsions,
spasms,
but not to be alarmed.

I stared at the
yellow
cabinets and thought,
‘well, at least it’s a color I already hate,
so I can really hate it now.’

The room was vibrating around me
and I couldn’t look at you.
And the doctor asked, ‘are you
ready?’
and I said, ‘yes, let’s do it
now.’

There was no resistance.

When the drug moved in–
you moved out of this world
with one big rush–
you were your mother’s dog
indeed.

Your legs
stiffened, your head went
slack,
and there was
one
gasp,

just one–

it was an easy death.

And in the days that followed,
I thought I would die,
I wanted to follow
you, my best friend,
the extension of all I am–
but I knew,
that in your previous doggie mind,
you would hate to see me sad,
so I pressed on,
and replayed memories–

the feel of your fur against
my hand, the click
click, click of your paws,
the wild thump of your tail,
the sarcastic, last word comments
I could always translate.

And late at night,
I would plead with the
universe
for just five minutes more,
with no response.

And slowly, I started to let go,
and now, I still cry
sometimes,
it sneaks up now and then,
but I count myself as blessed
for knowing such pure love,
my best friend.

I’ve been thinking about holiday traditions a lot this year, probably because I now have someone to pass them along to. When I was growing up, our big holiday tradition was begging our parents to open presents early. We usually succeeded, and got to pick out a couple of different gifts on different nights within the week prior to Christmas that we were allowed to open. It was kind of fun, and I guess most people don’t do that. That’s a tradition that would be kind of fun to pass on, and my parents were crafty enough to not put the good stuff out until Christmas morning (even after we outgrew Santa). We put up the tree every weekend after Thanksgiving. Mom would let us blare the Alvin and the Chipmunks Christmas music (still love it). We went to my Grandma Mickey’s (a nickname from when she was in high school) house for Christmas dinner every year. My grandpa Judd (who she married after my father’s father died) would give us "weird" gifts like National Geographic magazines. My parents called them "used". I would now call them "recycled". And dammit, I wish I had all those National Geographics now. Another tradition was that my parents would inevitably end up in a fight on Christmas morning. This was really nothing out of the ordinary. They fought all the time, but it just stood out more on Christmas. That’s a tradition I don’t intend to pass on.

None of those traditions were "official" traditions that anyone talked about. I just recognize them now as I look back. My husband’s family, however, has several "official" traditions. He comes from a big family of eleven–six boys and five girls. Apparently, every Christmas eve, they would get to open one present–new pajamas to lounge around in on Christmas morning. My mother-in-law used to make the pajamas, but eventually started buying them . After all, that’s a lot of handmade pajamas! She continues to buy pajamas for all "unmarried or uncohabitating" offspring. This tradition has continued so that her kids now do the same thing for their kids. I’ve already bought Albie’s for this year, and Hyrum and I also buy each other something pajama-related. He bought me a robe last year so I could use it during labor (didn’t happen–I never got in the tub). His family also tells the Christmas story on Christmas eve–they either read it, watch it, or act it out (it varies). I have a hard time keeping a straight face if it’s read or we watch a video about it, but I do enjoy it when the kids act it out. It’s just damn cute.

Another cool tradition they have is that on Christmas morning, everybody lines up outside the living room in order of their age, so that the littlest get to come into the room with the presents first. It makes for great pictures. Many of the kids come home for Christmas, with their kids in tow, so there are A LOT of people there for Christmas. This stands in stark contrast to my family, where the maximum number of people we ever had at grandma’s house for Christmas was ten. With occasional pop-ins from a few others. One year, there were thirty people at my in-laws’ house because all the kids and grandkids were there. Since then, five more grandkids have been born, and there’s another due this February. Being around that many kids on Christmas morning is way too much fun. I’m not Christian, and have struggled for years about the whole Christmas thing. I’ve finally just given in and accepted it as a great time to celebrate family. And nobody celebrates family better than Mormons! This year, almost all (if not all) of the grandkids will be there. I can’t wait to see Albie with his cousins. I only grew up with one, and she was kind of lame…

Somewhere along the way when my husband was a kid they had a family meeting about other traditions they’d like to have for Christmas. So, on Christmas eve, they make pizza. They get premade crusts and lots of different toppings, and then everyone gets to create the pizza they want.  And on Christmas day, rather than having a big dinner, they have a big breakfast. It’s huge. And it works out so well for Hyrum and I because we have breakfast there and then drive up to Prescott Valley to my grandma’s house for dinner.

As for the traditions Hyrum and I would like to start for our family, I’m uncertain. I really want to celebrate Solstice, so that may turn out to be a day that we exchange gifts among ourselves and then go celebrate Christmas with the extended family. The Santa thing complicates everything…Maybe we’ll celebrate all the December holidays! More cheer for everyone.

We do have one tradition so far. Every year, on an unspecified date close to Christmas, we watch "It’s a Wonderful Life". Maybe this will be a movie that we eventually watch on Solistice, even though it’s sort of Christmas themed. Hyrum was talking with his coworkers the other day about favorite Christmas movies, and he was the only one who mentioned this movie. I think that’s so sad. His coworkers are all pretty much in their early twenties, and they thought the movie was "cliche". They failed to realize that all of the "cliche" movies were modeled after that one! But to be honest, I don’t know that I would have appreciated it in my early twenties either. It’s the kind of movie you learn to appreciate after life has kicked you in the crotch a few times and you’ve had to give up on dreams and learn to appreciate new ones. I look forward to seeing it every year. And I cry like a baby during the scene between the pharmacist and young George. And then of course I cry at the end. If you haven’t seen it in years, watch it again. I doubt you will be disappointed.

So, what are the holiday traditions in your family? If you write about them, please comment and leave a link. If you aren’t Christian, do you still celebrate Christmas? If you celebrate Solstice, do you still celebrate Christmas too? Do you do the whole Santa thing? I love hearing about families and their traditions.

So, apparently, Tuesday was my very first blog-o-versary. I discovered the blog world when I was looking for info on homebirths. I was led to Jeanette’s blog, and then Leigh’s blog, and MB’s blog. Then I followed their links. And then those folks’ links. That was back when I could stay up until three in the morning without someone being up for the day two hours later.  And then I had the makings of an addiction. So I decided to start one myself. I don’t know how many readers I have. My stats say lots of people come here, but only a handful leave comments, and I don’t understand all of the stats anyway. But at the very least I have a nice record of the last year of my life.

I went back to read the first few posts, and I find it hard to believe that I had ever thought I would willingly have a hospital birth. I look at the belly pictures, and am amazed that that bump is now the monster pulling up on my chair, grabbing at my computer cord, and conducting all sorts of physics experiments (a.k.a. throwing, dropping, and banging things).

I find it hard to believe that there was a time in my life when I didn’t know M and C, my sweet and loving midwife team. It’s even harder to believe that I didn’t know the wonderful mama friends I have made in the last several months as a result of this blog. That alone has made any time I have put into this so worth it.

When I tell people that I am a graduate student, I always dread the follow-up question. Because that question is, what program? and when I say, psychology, or even try to be more specific and say, social psychology, my answer is always misunderstood. People assume that I counsel people or want to counsel people or am learning to diagnose people. They say things like, wow, you should study my crazy family, or uh-oh, are you going to diagnose me? When I try to explain that I don’t do that kind of psychology, it usually gets me nowhere.

Even my own mother has no idea what I do. I was lamenting the fact that jobs in my field are scarce a few months ago. She said that there were lots of jobs in Kentucky (where she lives). I inquired further. She said that yes, there were lots of jobs working as a counselor for this or that and that they started at 60 thousand dollars a year, etc. I said that I don’t do that kind of psychology. She got huffy with me and said, well, I know it’s not your first choice, but I was just suggesting it as a backup plan. What she failed to understand is that I am not even remotely trained to do what most people think of when they hear "psychology". When I say "psychology" they just hear "therapy".

I just stumbled across a blog entry that I think may clear up a few things. I may just have to memorize the url or have cards printed up or something. This entry lists 10 brilliant social psychology experiments. This is the heart of what social psychology is all about. These are the experiments that lit a fire in my mind. This is what I do with my time. Or what I would be doing if I could create experiments this cool.

Truth be told, in the last year, I’ve actually been doing more research that blends social psychology with other branches of psychology, like developmental and clinical. But it’s still research oriented and I still can’t tell you what to do with your life. Well, I guess I can tell you if you ask, but I can’t get paid for it.

…or shall we say, schizophrenia?

 When I was taking prenatal yoga, I remember the instructor talked about "motherhood amnesia". You know, that thing that sets in eventually after each difficult child-related event, such as pregnancy and varicose veins, labor, birth, sleep deprivation, baby blues, endless newborn screaming, etc. The night that Albert was born, I remarked to H that at that point in time, I didn’t think I ever wanted to go through childbirth again and that one child might really be enough. I had a hard time sleeping that night because I couldn’t stop having the sensation of pushing and pushing and pushin. I thought about the amnesia thing then, and couldn’t imagine I could forget the intensity of childbirth that easily. I thought it would take months.

How long did it take for amnesia to set in?

About 24 hours.

The length of time between each difficult period and its subsequent amnesia has only decreased over time. To the point where now, I can utter a statement such as, “what was I thinking having a kid?” or “I am so tired I could die,” only to casually mention within the next 60 seconds I can’t wait to have another child and that it is so much more fun than I thought it would be.

Because when I look at him and he is smiling, it is really hard to focus on any of the negatives.

I was prepared to experience this amnesia thing. I just didn’t think that it would occur simultaneously with the challenging times. It makes me dizzy just thinking about it.

We have started sleep training.

And night weaning.

Or as I prefer to call it, “behavior shaping”.

Last Wednesday morning, I was so tired and frustrated. And I was mean to Albert. I won’t go into details, but I was snarly enough that it makes me feel ashamed. And it made me realize that something had to change because I was way too tired and the frequent waking (every 2 to 3 hours) and the early waking (sometimes earlier than 5 a.m.) had finally pushed me past a line I didn’t even know was there.

While I admire people who can just wait these things out or mold themselves to fit their baby’s tendencies, it was the choice between doing that and being too sleep deprived and mean, or finding a compromise and being an otherwise joyful mother.

Aside from my being too tired and too mentally taxed, he was also getting so. damn. tired. He kept getting up earlier, and so I kept putting him to bed earlier so he would get enough sleep, and I was starting to contemplate a 6 p.m. bedtime just for him to get enough sleep. I was getting really resentful.

Once upon a time, he slept for seven or eight hours at a stretch. Then, around five and a half months, he started working on crawling, and things changed. I couldn’t swaddle him anymore because he would get halfway unswaddled and roll over on his belly and then be all tangled up in his blanket. That wasn’t safe. So I’d lay down with him until he fell asleep and then put him in the cosleeper. He was still sleeping for at least a 6 hour stretch to start the night, and then I’d nurse him and he’d sleep a few more hours in the cosleeper. He usually spent the last hour or two in bed with me.

Then he had surgery. He was so upset after the surgery. He was so in need of comfort, and so we had to do a lot of “stuff” to get him to sleep. A lot of rocking and singing and comforting. Our own guilt probably factored into the equation as well. We also transitioned to a crib around that time because he just needed more space (we only had a mini co-sleeper). During all of this we kept getting further and further away from the baby who could be put down awake, fall asleep alone, and sleep most of the night.

After those few weeks post-surgery, I though maybe he was just still going through some kind of phase. Teething? Mobility issues? A developmental leap? But it appears that the “phase” became a “habit” and after 10 weeks of increasingly elaborate sleep rituals mainly involving carrying all 25 pounds of him around while doing some kind of funky movement, I couldn’t do it anymore.

I found my boundary.

Crying it out was not an option. I think there is something about that method that really flies in the face of everything we know about attachment theory. Even controlled crying with the frequent check-ins wasn’t something I was willing to do, given that he’s currently entered into a separation anxiety phase. It just didn’t feel right, even when I only did it in my head.

I happened to have checked out “The Baby Whisperer Solves All Your Problems” a few weeks ago, but hadn’t really looked at it. I read it voraciously that day. I don’t agree with everything she says, but the “Pick Up-Put Down” method for older babies resonated with me.  Basically, you’re there to calm him (pick up) but as soon as he’s calm he has to get to sleep on his own (put down). You stay there the whole time; you offer an occasional hand on the back, words of encouragement, etc. I spent a lot of time lying on my bed (his crib is in our room) just waiting for him to wind down. At his age, it’s really alot more laying him down when he stands up rather than picking him all the way up. I liked this method because it makes so much sense from both an Attachment theory perspective and a Behaviorism perspective. This message board is very helpful for anyone else who wants or needs to give it a try. I don’t agree with everything about the method–every mother has to figure out what works for her baby. But it is a really useful starting point, and the general idea of being there for comfort but allowing the baby to find his or her own way to soothe to sleep makes sense to me.

So I decided that we were starting this thing right then. That day. With his morning nap. So I tried it.

It took an hour, but he fell asleep laying by himself in the crib with my hand on his stomach. He only really cried (as opposed to a goofy bitching babbling thing he does) once or twice. The thoughts that kept me going were (1) that he would sleep eventually, and (2) that if I gave in, I would have wasted his and my time and put him through angst for nothing.

I won’t go into the gory details of the next few days, but the maximum time to get him down was two hours for one nap. But on that particular occasion, he was just playing in his crib for the first hour, so he wasn’t upset the whole time. I just had to wait it out. I did all of the “training” the first few days, and H took the next two days. Surprisingly, Albie went down sooooo easy for him. Less than 10 minutes every time with no crying. It just goes to show that dads can be better at some things. And last night he slept for 4 and a half hours at one stretch. And he’s waking closer to 6 now instead of prior to 5. We’re still doing a dream feed at 10 and I’m fine with that. Even if he could go 10 hours without eating, he’s so distractible right now that the dream feed is the best nursing session he gets all day.

I realize now that when he was really little, he had reflux issues, so I had to keep him up for a half an hour after feeds. So I couldn’t nurse him lying down or just pull him into bed to nurse and cosleep. Once the reflux got better around five months, it was really nice to just nurse him in bed and I especially loved cuddling those last few hours in the early morning. Then, the nursing sessions started moving earlier and earlier in the night until he wanted to nurse every two to three hours starting about two hours after he went to bed. And he got smart about me trying to nurse him back to sleep in the early morning and would jerk himself awake if he got drowsy at the breast. His waking time went from 8 to 7 to 6 to 5 and then earlier than 5. I am only willing to accommodate his whims so much…I could have dealt with either frequent waking or early waking, but not both. If he were a better cosleeper, I would have just toughed everything out that way—you don’t have to wake up much to just pop a boob in the mouth. But he is like me and wants his space and when we cosleep he sleeps fitfully and wakes even more frequently. So I would have to go get him out of the crib, bring him to the bed, feed him, debate whether or not I should just let him sleep with me and then end up getting up in a half an hour to put him back in the crib anyway, and take him back to the crib. By this time, I was completely awake and unable to get back to sleep for a half an hour. So each nightwaking with him was an hour of sleep lost for me. I was starting to come undone.

So this method seems to be working and he doesn’t seem distressed or anything. He actually seems happier because he and I are both better rested already. But with this decision has come so much sadness on my part because when you commit to something like this, it’s pretty much an all or nothing thing. That means I won’t likely be napping with him any more. I won’t be watching him slowly fall asleep at the breast anymore. I won’t get to savor the middle of the night nursing sessions. When I’m not busy resenting them.

He is growing up. Every day. Every hour. And it’s happening so fast. And although he is still a baby, this whole decision to teach him to fall asleep and stay asleep on his own has brought me to the verge of tears several times in the last few days. Not because it feels wrong. Don’t misunderstand me. If it felt wrong, I wouldn’t do it. I know it’s the right thing. I’m also not weepy because it’s been really hard or stressful. Surprisingly, it hasn’t. It makes me weepy because it takes him one step further away from total dependence on me. Perhaps the biggest barrier to him sleeping well in the last few months has been me, and my desire to protect him and shield him and keep him as close as I can. 

I know that this is neither the first, nor far from the last, painful decision I will make to encourage his independence or save my sanity. I don’t know what it is about this particular decision that makes me get all choked up and sentimental, but for me it just really highlights how quickly he is growing and becoming his own little dudeself. And while I am so fascinated by these changes and so proud of the magical child that he is and is becoming every day, I want to scream at the world to STOP or slow down and just let me catch my breath and savor these stages.

Goddess help me when he decides to wean.

If I were still together with my ex-husband, yesterday would have marked 10 years since we hooked up.

I’m thirty now, which means that I have known him for one-third of my life. That kind of math freaks me out.

I want to go back to that 20 year old girl, and say, don’t do it.

Don’t move in with him.

Don’t distance yourself from your friends for him.

Don’t choose him over your family.

Don’t marry him.

Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.

And then I think that all of that is who made me the person I am today, and I have to be glad. Because all of those lessons really were blessings in disguise.

He wasn’t really abusive, per se. Just negative. Overwhelmingly negative. Black hole suck your soul kind of negative. And never willing to accept blame. And lazy. So lazy. I was going to school full-time and working full-time and the only person trying to keep the house clean. Whereas he spent more time in the five years we were together without a job than with one. I would have been more sympathetic to this if he had taken care of the home stuff. But he didn’t.

There were many reasons to leave, and it was really just complacency that made me stay so long. That, and he had a son, and so of course I wanted to stay for the boy.

And truth be told, in spite of myself, I did love him. It sounds so lame—the oh-so-typical “but I love him”. But it’s true. I did. At least for a little while. And he did introduce me to a lot of great music and a lot of occult stuff that I still dig today. I just couldn’t live with him. He was sucking me dry.

But the tipping point—the point at which I realized I just couldn’t stay any more was when I was late for my period. I had convinced myself that I didn’t want kids because I couldn’t even entertain the thought of trying to have another child, a child of my own, with him. I was terrified that I was pregnant. Because I had a feeling that an abortion conversation would not go well with him because he’d been hinting that he wanted another kid. I was scared enough that I wouldn’t buy a pregnancy test. Which is exactly how women end up several months pregnant without knowing. It really does happen. I don’t know how you could ignore it for nine months, but at least the first few months, I get it.

And then, I started my period. And I cried. That was when I realized that I did want kids, but not with him.

I couldn’t even tell him. I didn’t tell him I was late. I didn’t tell him I was worried. I couldn’t tell him I was disappointed.

This experience planted the seed that grew into me leaving unexpectedly two months later on July 20^th, the eve of our wedding anniversary. I had tried to tell him I wanted a divorce. He wouldn’t listen. So I just left. I left him everything of value—the car, the computer, the furniture, all of the DVDs, CDs, records we had purchased together. I even had to have someone come pick me up because we only had one car. I left while he was at work. This is what I took with me:

• My Ani Difranco CDs
• My journals
• My tarot card deck
• My favorite astrology book
• My book about runes
• A few clothes
• Pot, a pipe, and a lighter
• A piece of driftwood I found on the beach in Northern California that was high in sentimental value
• A batik from Bali (I had several but just took my favorite)
• My Tibetan singing bowl
• Photographs

I told the friend that picked me up that night that I wasn’t sure what to take. He said you take what you notice the most, and played a Dar Williams song for me called Blessings. One of the verses says,

I was fast asleep at three in the morning when I got the payphone call,
And she said, "Did I wake you up," I said, "Hey, no, not at all."
And she said, "I got this suitcase and I don’t know what to pack,"
And I said, "You can take anything you want, just wait and see,
It’s not a release, not a reward, it’s the blessings,
Its the gift of what you notice more,"

And I walked out and I watched her kick the big pile of the night,
And we sat down and we waited for that strange and empty light.
Yeah the blessings…

And it’s true. In that moment before I took a great leap of faith that I could just leave and find a way to be okay, I noticed the things that mattered most to me. And I know exactly what that "strange and empty light" feels like. It is divine. I don’t think I would take an astrology book or rune book now, but at the time, I was clinging to anything that might give me some sense of certainty. And I would still take my tarot deck. Even though I like to believe that I don’t believe in all of that, I would still take my tarot deck.

I came back a few days later for some other stuff I had boxed ahead of time and hid in the closet so I could grab it and go. And to grab my dog. That visit got kind of violent, so I’m glad I’d thought ahead. In the end, I left with nothing more than what could fit in the back of a Volvo station wagon.

I should also mention that I was due to start graduate school a month after I left him. So when I started, I didn’t even really have a place to live or a place for my dog. I first lived with the friend who picked me up, and we hooked up, and it was a rebound nightmare. We are still friends, and maybe even better friends than we were before, because he saw all my crazy come out to play and never judged me for it.

I lived with another friend for about six weeks until he confided that he really wanted to be more. It wasn’t creepy or anything—just awkward. We’re still friends too. In fact, he is the person who was going to act as my "doula" for labor, but whom I never got a chance to call back because I progressed (through the first stage) so quickly. I then moved in with my mother for another three months (disaster!) until I found a dog friendly apartment to move into in January.

Imagine me, moving my Volvo of stuff around, 4 times during my first year of graduate school. It is a miracle I didn’t drop out and didn’t fail any courses. Or end up having a full-blown nervous breakdown.

So, as much as I want to go back to that girl and say DON’T DO IT, the whole experience gave me so much perspective. I understand why really nice girls end up with loser guys. I understand what it’s like to want to stay for the sake of the kids, even if they’re not your own. I understand what it feels like to leave with nothing more than two bags. I understand what it feels like to face the emptiness of uncertainty and just jump. I understand what it takes to just do what you have to. Period. It all made me who I am today, and for that I am thankful.

And the best ones were the ones I got to keep as I grew strong,
And the days that opened up until my whole life could belong,
And now I’m getting the answers, when I don’t need them anymore,
I’m finding the pictures, and I finally know what I kept them for,
I remember, I can see them, see them smiling, see them stuck,
See them try, I wish them luck and all the blessings.

Dinner for one at Baby Kay’s (complete with two extra strength drinks)….$37.00

Hotel room in Phoenix during tourist season (MUST HAVE COMFY BED!!!)….$130.00

Being away from Dude long enough to miss him….priceless
 

Dude has been waking up every 1 to 3 hours every night since his surgery. Prior to his surgery, he would at least have an initial 5 or 6 hour stretch and then wake up every two hours. In the last month and a half, even that stopped. I am exhausted. I am a real weenie when it comes to sleep deprivation.

My husband, in all of his infinite wisdom, and divine benevolence, told me I should go stay somewhere and relax and get some uninterrupted sleep. With only a minor twinge of guilt, I accepted.

I know mothers who cannot bear the thought of being away from their child for 24 hours, or who do not trust their partners enough to leave for 8 hours.

I would have never had children if I didn’t have a partner who can function as a competent "mother". In fact, for a long time, I had convinced myself I didn’t want kids because my ex-husband was a lazy moron. When I realized I really did want kids, I left him. There were other reasons too, but that was a real turning point.

I am not the kind of mother who can’t stand to be away from her baby. I am the kind of mother who needs to preserve her space in order to maintain patience and happiness. I’ve realized that’s okay. Sometimes being a good mother means recognizing your limitations. And it’s kind of nice to miss Dude (already).

And after all, I wouldn’t want all of that frozen milk to go to waste.

Happy zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz’s to me.

So, I mentioned in my last Albie update that I like to drive. Actually, I love to drive. In fact, I’m not even sure that there is a strong enough word for how I feel about getting into a car and covering vast differences in short spans of time. I am the type of road tripper that many other people would hate because I don’t like to stop. I don’t want to savor each place. I just want to see as much stuff as possible. My husband is usually willing to humor me in this regard, and I do most of the driving on our trips because he knows it makes me happy. There is something immensely satisfying to me about looking at a map and tracing the roads that I have travelled. It is almost like a ritual cleansing for me because my mind can just go and go wherever it likes while my body covers these stretches. Some people have confession. Others have vision quests. There are cleansing teas and diets. I’ll take the road.

I have taken several road trips by myself, accompanied only by a dog. I remember the first time that I had a trip planned, my mom said she wished I was taking "someone" with me. Someone male, I’m sure. I felt perfectly safe in the company of an 80 lb malamute mix. A dog will reliably wake and raise hell when anyone approaches your car while sleeping. I cannot say the same for any human companion.

I have not taken one of these solitary trips in over three years. I have the itch. As soon as I can free the time and feel okay leaving dude for a few nights, I’m off again. It is an obsession. Maybe I’ll just take dude with me, but it is harder to just GO with a wee one. And I am admittedly selfish in that aspect. My current (favorite–don’t tell the other two) dog is a giant schnauzer-chow mix who is a simply amazing travel companion. He’s fine being left in the car as long as necessary. Or a hotel room. He will even stay in the car with the windows completely down. Never tears anything up (unlike the malamute who repeatedly destroyed seat belts…). And he is aging, so I want to make sure to get a few more adventures in with him. The nice thing about dogs is that after awhile, they are happy to shift in to travelcoma mode and just sleep a lot. At least the ones I have known. Babies don’t seem to be made that way, and I realize it’s not really good for them to be stuck in seats too much anyway.

I came across this Sam Shepard quote a few years ago that sums it up for me:

"I love long-distance driving. The farther the better. I love covering immense stretches in one leap:  Memphis to New York City; Galu pto L.A.; Saint Paul to Richmond; Lexington to Baton Rouge; Bismarck to Cody. Leaps like these. Without a partner. Completely along. Relentless driving. Driving until the body disappears, the legs fall off, the eyes bleed, the hands go numb, the mind shuts down, and then, suddenly, something new begins to appear."

I can almost taste those words when I read them. 

 Photos of the birth can be found here. I can’t quite figure out how to link my flickr account to this blog with the fancy little "most recent photos" icon, so I figured I’d just post the link. The pictures are also not in the correct order due to a minor snafu with the date-time function on the camera. Basically, if the baby is in the picture, those were most likely taken after he was born.

I have intentionally neglected to include many specific times in this story so as not to put my lovely and talented midwives in any danger from the guv-ment. Stupid guv-ment.

This story is ridiculously long. I apologize in advance for my shameless glee in talking about myself and this experience.
 

The Birth of Baby A 

(We didn’t know the sex of the baby, so we just called it Baby ‘A’ because both the male and female names we had picked started with an ‘A’)

When I first got pregnant, I considered having a home birth, but decided it wasn’t for me. I found a doctor who was highly recommended among birth circles and very supportive of natural birth, and decided that I would do a hospital birth.

As I began reading lots and lots of information during my pregnancy, I repeatedly returned to the homebirth option, but told myself that things would be fine in the hospital. However, around 28 weeks, I started to have serious misgivings and a nagging voice in the back of my head. I worried that my doctor would not be on call. I worried that my baby would be taken away. And then my sister in law had an HBAC. And then Ani Difranco announced her plans for a homebirth, and I realized that I didn’t want to be one of those people who is like, “well, it’s cool, but not for me”. Why not for me? I realized that having a homebirth is not just a birth choice, but a political statement. I mentioned it to my husband, and he was totally supportive. So then I started looking for a midwife, and let my doctor know. She promptly terminated care. Turns out, when I was 36 weeks along, that doc retired!

My first midwife appointment (after the interview) was at home when I was 32 weeks along by the doctor’s estimate. The midwife thought I was closer to 34 weeks. We went with the earlier date, knowing we could change it if necessary and not wanting to be in a position of being too “early” to do a homebirth that was actually full term. I was totally blown away with the difference in care with a midwife and how gentle she was when she palpated my belly and talked to the baby.

The day before Valentine’s Day, I had an appointment with the midwife, and I was 60% effaced, 1 to 2 cm dilated and baby was REALLY low. I was concerned about the baby’s position, because baby had been in the same position for several weeks and had suddenly moved to a new position a week prior, and it was really hard for all of us to figure out what was going on. We did, however, know the head was still down, which was a relief.

Later that day, I had some bloody show. I’d had what I thought was bloody show the week prior, but it had been more blood than mucus, and was right after sex. The stuff I had on this day was textbook mucus plug—pink tinted snot. I was excited.

My husband hadn’t gotten much sleep the night prior, and when he got home, I told him I felt really “weird” and that he needed to get to bed early because I thought the baby was coming soon. He asked why, and all I could say was that I felt “weird, really weird”.

That night, I had to get up to pee a lot, and there was a little mucusy stuff each time, but no longer pink. He got up to go to work at 4 a.m., and my back really hurt. I thought it was just my hips hurting. I also felt like getting up and doing stuff, so we both laughed and figured it was the nesting urge, and that it meant I should really try to rest. So I had some yogurt and went back to sleep.

At 8 a.m., I woke to the POP! of my water breaking. I got up out of bed, shaky, and called my husband. He was supposed to be done with work at 10, and so I said to just come home when he was done. Then I called my midwife. She said she’d be over in an hour or two just to check things out. Then I called my friend Sam to tell him that I’d give him a call when things picked up. He was going to help us with the birth, because even though he’s a dude, we’re very close and both of his kids were born at home.

I decided to get a shower, and by the time I got out, my surges had started. I noticed quickly that they seemed to be really close together, and got out the stopwatch. As I was emptying and loading the dishwasher, I realized they were about 1 minute long and 1 minute apart. So, I called my midwife again. She asked if they were strong, and I said it was getting harder to ignore them but that I was still loading the dishwasher. She said I needed to get my husband to come home sooner than later.

I called his work again, and he had already left. I called him and asked him to pick up a few things on the way home, and told him I needed some breakfast. He said he’d make me pancakes when he got home.

By the time he got home, the surges were pretty strong, but I was still up and about, tidying the house. I started some music. It was “Hum Drum” by Left Hand Right Hand. He set to work making me pancakes. By the time one of them was done, I ate a few bites and really didn’t want the rest, and I began to feel nauseated. I now had to focus entirely on the surges. He suggested working on my “birth board”, a piece of cardboard that I’d wanted to decorate in early labor as a focal point. I said, “I really don’t think that’s going to happen.” At this point, I had to stop what I was doing to focus on each contraction. I did yoga poses against the wall for a few surges and used my birth ball for a few more. The yoga poses I used were shower pose and a modified downward dog pose. I commented to Hyrum that the time when a surge let up was so nice. The whole contrast effect was amazing. I totally loved that short time when one had let up and I had a minute before another began.

The apprentice midwife, C, arrived. She assessed things, and then stepped outside to call the primary midwife, M, and told her to take her time but head on over. When she came back inside, she took one look at me, and went back outside to call her again to tell her to come straight over. In the few minutes that had passed, I had gone from handling surges well to being completely overtaken by them. The birth ball was next to a little typewriting table, and I had started grabbing the table during the surges. They were coming so fast, there was hardly any time to catch my breath.

I went to lie on the bed to try side lying for a few surges. That was not so very comfortable, and I was starting to feel kind of pushy but not really. At one point, I cried out that I couldn’t do it, and even as I said it, I knew I was in transition and that my comment was a textbook response, but I couldn’t stop myself from saying it out loud. Hyrum (my husband) said that he was really glad that one of the midwives was there for that, because in that moment, even though he knew it was a textbook transition comment, I looked so scared that it freaked him out. C reminded me that it was just one surge at a time. I said, “I know, but they’re coming right next to each other.” She said yes, but that I needed to relax between them and let each one go. All of a sudden, they eased up, and I was indeed pushy. She did a VE, and said she couldn’t find the cervix, so to go ahead and listen to my body. The next little window of time was nice, because I’d feel mildly pushy, and then there were a few minutes between each surge to rest. I pushed my arms against the wall above my head when I had the urge to push. This short period of time was such a welcome reprieve from the intensity of the surges I’d been having only minutes prior.

M showed up soon after that, while I was still lying on the bed. She did a VE and said she didn’t feel cervix either, so to trust my body. She asked if I wanted them to fill the birth pool, and I said no, I didn’t think it would be worth it or that there would be time. I decided to go push on the toilet for awhile. I would have used a birth stool, but because she’d rushed over from her office, she hadn’t had a chance to go to her house to pick it up. Around this time, “Kondole Part 2” by Psychic TV was playing. M said she liked my birth music. I liked it too. I pushed on the toilet for awhile, and it was a good place for me to push. My husband and I found a groove so that when it came time to push, he was in front of me, and I grabbed his hands and pushed against them. A few days after the birth, neither one of us could figure out why our arms were so sore until we remembered this position. Basically, we were both working our pecs by pushing against each other. I had been pushing there for awhile, and M said that when I felt the baby crown, I should come forward off of the toilet, and C would come behind me and we could put a chux pad on the floor. They had also warmed the room by this point and it was really hot, so they kept putting icy washcloths on my neck. She brought in some candles for the bathroom. We all thought the baby would come soon. We were wrong.

After awhile, there hadn’t been much progress, and so she did a VE again, and realized there was a little cervical lip left. She did the exam on the toilet, and then helped push the lip back while I pushed. It hurt like hell. I think that I had pushed for about an hour before we realized the lip was stuck. Maybe more. She also then had me “push where her fingers were” to get a better push going. That hurt like hell too. Some music came on that wasn’t doing it for me, so I asked M to put on Sigur Ros “Agaetis Byrjun”.

Then she suggested hands and knees on the bed. I had a big stack of pillows in front of me to rest on between surges. I was actually pushing more like in a squat. And Hyrum applied counterpressure during surges. It was nice to rest in between, but not really all that comfortable. The midwives fanned me between surges, but stopped when I was actually having one—I guess to not distract me. At one point Hyrum let me know he would need to use the bathroom after the next surge, and while he was gone C applied counterpressure. It was the only time he left me the whole time I was in labor. The midwives also kept offering me Gatorade between every few surges, and it tasted surprisingly fantastic. I guess my body really needed it. They also checked the fetal heart rate every 15 minutes with a little hand held Doppler machine.

I went back to the toilet for awhile—can’t remember if I wanted to or if M suggested it. She brought in pillows for behind my head so I could lean back. The toilet was nice for pushing, but really uncomfortable in between surges. And at one point, she brushed my hair from my face, and told me that I looked “so pretty”. It was very kind, and I probably did look pretty. It was not what you expect to hear during labor. You expect powerful, or something, but pretty was a unique thing to hear. My eyes still well up when I think about it. She also had me try a lunge on the toilet so that one foot was on the toilet and the other on the floor. It was a really interesting position, but difficult to keep my balance even leaning on Hyrum. It was a nice change though.

She suggested that we walk a little, so we walked out to the living room. When a surge would come, I’d rush back to the toilet for a few, and then she’d suggest I walk again. Hyrum would encourage me just to make it to the front door or to the back door. Little goals were helpful. Each time I did that, I would have a really strong surge afterwards. During this time, I asked Hyrum to re-start the Sigur Ros CD that had just played. Turns out, it was still playing, but I was so out in labor land that I didn’t even recognize it. I thought something else was on. M restarted it anyway.

Shortly after that, I tried side lying, which ended up with me on my back in more of a Bradley Method pose. M was near my feet and encouraged me to push against her if I needed to. Hyrum was at my right on the bed, and C at my left. They had me curl my head up with C helping me. M said she was going to help me out, and she did some stuff inside of me that really hurt. She told me later she was trying to make space and do finger forceps and such. At one point I screamed, “no, no, no, M stop!” She looked almost like I had struck her. It has to be hard to cause pain when you know you’re helping. She looked so empathetic. It was at this point that the real pushes began, and I began vocalizing–screaming, really, through them. They said, “now that’s how you get a baby out.” They told me to push through the pain. They would tell me to stay with it and push as long as I had “it”—the urge. It was hard to give over to that. Sometimes I would whine that I was trying, and they would tell me that they knew and that I was doing great. They told me I was doing great several times, but I didn’t always believe it. I felt like I would be making more progress if they were right. Looking back, I realize that I was doing great, to be working so hard during such slow progress.

I guess that during that time M was doing “finger forceps” and a lot of other stuff to try to help the head along. I just remember her using a lot of lube and being, as she said later, “all up in your business”. She told me later that she couldn’t even feel around the head and realized it was really big. When I was sort of passed out between surges, she mouthed to Hyrum “your head” and pointed at him and then her head. He has a big head.

At one point, I said that it hurt in my lower pelvis. M thought it might be my bladder, and offered to catheterize me. I was really scared of a catheter and said maybe I could pee. She said she really didn’t think so because the head was far enough in the canal to make it really difficult. I asked if it would hurt. She said not compared to everything else. They had a little trouble, because my urethra was in a weird place or something, but finally got it in. I didn’t really feel it, and then they were pulling it out and it was over and I’d already peed and didn’t know it. It did help. It was only a little pee, but the pain went away.

Hyrum says he remembers me raising my arms to the sky when I was pushing during this time and that it was a very powerful image. They also brought out a mirror at some point, and I could see the head inside of me and I said “I can do this, I can do this”. At some point, Chris and Cosey, “Allotropy” started playing. I was only vaguely aware of the music once or twice. By now, I was so deep in labor land I didn’t even realize there was music most of the time.

At several points through the pushing nightmare, I said, “baby, please come out.” Or I would ask why the baby wouldn’t come out. And the midwives were always calm and said the baby just wanted to take its time or something like that. I just continued to plead with the baby to please come soon and kept telling it that we wanted to meet it.

I don’t know if it was at this point or when I was on hands and knees at the end that M said she felt like I was backing away from the power rather than staying with it. She was right, but the feeling was so scary. She said I had to stay with it and so I worked harder to do so. But it was overwhelming.

After I was on the bed, I went back to the toilet for awhile, and we walked a few times. I was glad I did the intermittent toilet pushing because I didn’t get the purging diarrhea that comes with early labor, so I was pooping plenty on the toilet.

After this toilet trip, they suggested I go back to hands and knees. So I did. And I do think that’s when she told me not to back away from the pushing. And she also suggested that I make lower vocalizations so that I didn’t waste energy on the noise. So I did. It helped. I was sort of in a squat position a lot of the time when I was pushing and sort of pushing against Hyrum even though he was on the right side of me. Leaning forward to rest didn’t work, so I rested on him. There was very little time between surges during this time. They told me I just need to push with all my might and get the baby out in the next few pushes. I could reach inside and feel the head right there. Also, the baby’s heartbeat was occasionally slower, and so they kept reminding me to take deep breaths for the baby.

When the ring of fire started, I thought maybe I should pant, but they said to push as hard as I could. So this was different than a lot of other people’s birth experiences because we just needed to get this baby out. I was scared of tearing, but had to say fuck it. And I remember M saying that when the baby came out, she would pass it through to me. It took forever for the head to crown, and then the face was sort of stuck in the ring of fire. And I remember thinking, shouldn’t it all just come out? And I would try to push between surges, but had no power. I was starting to get worried. It burned constantly between the surges and I thought I couldn’t take it. Hyrum had said a few different times during the birth that I would find out the sex soon, as a way to sort of inspire me. I didn’t care. At the end, the only thing motivating me was making the pain stop. I realized that Coil, “The Snow” was playing while the head was crowning. It’s a very upbeat, driven CD, and it was really appropriate because it gave me a little extra energy. The baby ended up being born to this CD. I even wrote the artist to tell him so.

Apparently, C saw that I had pushed the head out, and it was stuck at the chin. Which means the baby was stuck and is a sign of shoulder dystocia. All of a sudden, M was behind me and I felt like there were 20 hands inside of me and she said that I needed to just keep pushing and pushing. And I knew something was wrong because the tone of her voice had completely changed. She was still calm but very serious. I don’t know where I found the strength to push and push with no urge, but I did. I felt like there were so many hands inside of me and hands inside of my anus. I thought for sure that both midwives had their hands inside of me, but it was really just M’s. There were also no hands in my anus, but it felt like it. Part of that might have been because I’d read about shoulder dystocia and that sometimes it’s necessary to try to hook the baby’s shoulder by going in through the anus. When I asked her about it later, she said she hadn’t done that, but had thought about it. Apparently, she had hooked one shoulder, but couldn’t find the other, and later on told me that she thought his arm might have been caught behind him, which would also explain his slow descent. After not being able to hook his shoulders, she suddenly said “I need you to get on this side (left) right now”. I was prepared for her to try other tugging and maneuvers once I did. So I began to move to that side, and as I moved, I swung my right leg really wide, and before my hip hit the bed, the baby was flying out. I had dislodged it. It turns out that the baby had been stuck with the head out for 3 minutes after they realized it was stuck at the chin, which is not a terribly long time, but long enough to be getting really concerned. It seemed like so much less time, especially since I was pushing with all of my might the whole time. She told me later she had thought she was going to have to break its arm to get it out. “Better a broken arm than a broken brain.”

It took 20 seconds for him to start breathing, but seemed like so much longer to me. I just kept saying “come on baby” and C said, “don’t worry, baby is fine”. I was bleeding a lot and they told me to tell myself to stop bleeding. That didn’t work fast enough, so they gave me a shot of pitocin. I’m glad they did. The reason C had tried to reassure me that the baby was okay was because they have noticed that when a mom freaks about the baby, she bleeds worse, and you can end up with two emergencies on your hands. I think that’s a really interesting effect. When the mom is worried about the baby, she loses the ability to will herself to be okay.

Once the baby let out a cry, Hyrum greeted the baby by saying, “Hi Albert”, because he had seen the genitals on the way out. For weeks I hadn’t been able to think of the baby as a girl and my intuition had been correct.

They did give him a few puffs of oxygen initially because he was quite blue. It took awhile after his torso pinked up for the blue to leave his hands and feet. His apgars were 7 and 8.

He was born at 3:24 p.m. I had pushed for several hours. If I’d been in the hospital, they’d have cut me open for sure.

M recommended a Vitamin K shot because Albert’s head was so very bruised from all the pushing. I consented.

There was blood and meconium and fluid EVERYWHERE. The bed, the floor, the walls, all over M. Everywhere.

Hyrum and C dead lifted me to a position where I was laying on the bed with my head at the head. Once the cord stopped pulsing, Hyrum cut it with C’s assistance. But I had no energy left. And I couldn’t push the placenta out. Even with gentle tugging on the cord. After awhile M said, more or less, get the damn thing out. I don’t want to transfer you for THIS. So I went to the toilet and pushed and tugged and got it out in no time with help from gravity. By myself. We made placenta prints out of it.

I got away with a tear near my urethra and a weird burst near my perineum that might have been a varicose vein. Nothing worse than 1st degree. M had considered an episiotomy and was glad she didn’t do one. Thank God for perineum massage and the constant massage M kept doing throughout. We were all shocked that I didn’t tear much worse than I did.

Afterwards, I thanked M for getting my baby out safely and said I knew she could do it. She said my faith in her is probably the only reason she got him out. She also said I really was a great birth mom because I listened to her and changed positions and cooperated. I felt really good about that.

I have no pictures from the moment Albert was born because Hyrum was helping me and the midwives were busy assisting. This is a good reason to have a doula or support person, and I had a support person—but never called him back. That was because things picked up so quickly that I just didn’t have a chance and thought things would be finished much sooner than they were. It makes me kind of sad that he didn’t get to be here, but things never really go the way you planned. But I still had exactly the birth that was meant for me. He was the first person I called once the baby was born.

I commented that I guess we could have filled the tub after all. But M pointed out that with all of the position changing I had done, it wouldn’t have done much good. I was also kind of bummed that labor took off so quickly that I didn’t get to work on any of my labor projects. But as C pointed out, if I’d had a long early labor, I still would have had a long pushing phase too. And probably would have been too tired at the end.

After I finally got the placenta out, I really wanted to get cleaned up. I was sitting in a chair in the bathroom, and nursed Albie for the first time. Hyrum took my pulse, and it was about 150 beats per minute. The midwives thought for sure he must have miscounted. So they took it again. And it was indeed 150 beats per minute. So, I was forbidden from standing in the shower. M got a washcloth and cleaned me up at the sink while I sat in my chair. No doctor would ever do that for you. She also went to the kitchen and grabbed me some yogurt and Hickory Farms sausage, cheese and cracker stuff. I was so hungry but it was kind of hard to eat. I was told to stay in bed as much as possible, and once I was lying back down, my pulse chilled out to a reasonable range.

Afterwards, the midwives had another birth they had to go to, and so I lent M some clothes since hers were covered in “me”. Hyrum went out to our favorite Thai restaurant and brought home some coconut soup and some pork toast appetizers.

During a follow-up visit, M said that even though I thought they’d done a lot of work, that I’d really done the work. And I was a great laboring mom because I’d been willing to try new positions. She said a lot of moms would have given up and said, "that’s it, take me to the hospital." Honestly, that possibility never even occurred to me.

People say to me that I was brave, and that they would never birth at home because “what if something goes wrong?” Well, something did go wrong. Thank god I had a midwife. Thank god I was mobile and able to change positions and able to push with all of my might. A little dude that’s stuck is a big frigging deal. I would much rather a midwife use her hands and not damage the baby’s head than use forceps. In a hospital, the best tool is often still having the woman change positions—not easily done while numb from the waist down and hooked to machines. So, all I can say is thank god I was home and not drugged.

It sounds so cliché, but birthing at home was the most empowering thing I’ve ever done. And the weird thing is that I’ve been "politically active" for some time now and have given speeches and organized actions and generally been a part of that whole scene. In retrospect, I realize that birthing my baby at home assisted by midwives was the most political thing I’ve ever done. And there were only three people there to witness it.

When I went to yoga last Wednesday night, the instructor asked us to think of one wish for our baby during our final relaxation and share it with the baby.

I had this immediate flood of a wish that was hard to put into words.

It was a mixture of a wish for happiness and safety and allowing a child to be a child.

I grew up in a very angry, abusive household. My mother did the best she could, but spanked liberally. She had very tough standards for our behavior, even when we were very little. I grew up with a lot of pressure to be perfect. My father is an alcoholic who abused my mother and intimidated us. When he isn’t drinking, he is one of the sweetest, funniest, men in the world. Unfortunately, he drank a lot. 

It was the general feeling that I associate with these things that I do not want my child to have. I don’t want my child to hear late night drunken fights or see its mother backed into a corner or remember policemen showing up or broken windows or dishes. Although much of the bad memories are associated with my father, I have a lot of negative associations with my mother as well. Because things trickle down…

It took me awhile to put my wish into a concise collection of words:

I do not want my child to fear me.

It is one thing to occasionally raise your voice. I know this will happen. There will most assuredly be times when my child is shocked by something I do. But I do not want the constant haze of fear and anticipation and tension to permeate its young life. 

I do not want to hold my child to standards that are too high.

I do not want my child to think that loud fights at four in the morning are normal.

I do not want my child to feel a constant knot in its stomach.

I do not want my child to constantly fear physical punishment. 

The combination of constant love and fear towards a parent is a terrible emotional state to grow up with.

If I can raise a child who does not fear me, I will have accomplished all I can ask for in this lifetime.